


Four Letter Word

by Bookkbaby



Series: Until Only A Scar Remains [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Hopeful Ending, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Post-9x03, Rape Recovery, Supportive Sam Winchester, Team Free Will, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-10
Updated: 2017-03-10
Packaged: 2018-10-02 06:31:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10211654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bookkbaby/pseuds/Bookkbaby
Summary: "I-" Cas tries to explain. "I'd never said it. Before. I never said the word."Cas takes another step on the path towards recovery.





	

Cas is walking back from the bathroom when he hears it.

There's a shuffling sound from the direction of the kitchen, the kind of noise produced when someone is familiar with a space and is trying to move quietly through it. Cas, still clutching his dirty sleeping clothes, hesitates.

He's not _f_ _rightened_ , exactly. He's... cautious.

The dreams had been bad tonight. The'd left him paranoid and jumping at shadows.

He glances towards his room, then back to the kitchen. Sleep won't come for him again tonight, he's certain of it. His skin feels clean now, rubbed raw under the hot spray of the shower, but the idea of laying down in bed and closing his eyes-

No. He won't sleep again tonight.

Slowly, his feet carry him to the kitchen. He creeps up to the open doorway and peers through it, letting out a breath he didn't realize he was holding when he recognizes Sam's broad back.

It must be later - earlier?- than he realized, if Sam is already awake. Sam's already dressed to go running, as is his usual wont, though Cas's nightmares usually wake him up with more than enough time to be showered and safely ensconced in his room before Sam wakes.

Sometimes, rarely, he falls asleep again. Sometimes, he writes in his notebook.

Now that he thinks of it, writing might be helpful tonight. (This morning?) The healing effect of soap and hot water is already wearing off.

He turns to go, but hasn't taken two steps when-

"Cas?"

Cas turns back to the kitchen to find Sam in the doorway, an apologetic smile on his face.

"I didn't wake you, did I?" Sam asks quietly. Cas musters up a small, thin smile.

"I was already awake," he says. Sam brightens, relieved.

"Oh, good," he says. "I made coffee? And there's toast."

Cas hesitates, but only for a moment. He could return to his room, drop his filthy clothes in the hamper and scrawl out the words itching under his skin. But... there's a light on in the kitchen, good company, and apparently hot coffee.

It sounds... nice. His thoughts and the ghosts of that night tend to be his only company after the nightmares. Perhaps it would do him some good to change that.

"That sounds great," Cas says. Sam smiles and disappears back into the kitchen. Cas follows behind and awkwardly looks for a place to put his dirty clothing as Sam gets a second mug down from the cabinet.

Is it rude to put soiled clothes on the table? It's only sweat, and mostly dry now at that, but Cas has a feeling that dirty underwear does not belong anywhere people eat.

Out of the corner of his eye, he notices Sam watching him. Sam's gaze strays from the bundle of cloth in Cas's hands to his damp hair. Cas busies himself with putting the clothes neatly onto a chair, figuring it was a better choice than the table or counter.

Sam clears his throat and turns to grab the coffee pot.

"Nightmares?" Sam asks gently. Cas goes still.

'Worse', he wants to say, 'memories'. He doesn't speak. Sam continues, voice gentle and soft.

"I know Dean's not one much for talking about feelings, but... if you want to talk, I'm your friend too," Sam offers haltingly, pouring a fresh cup of coffee. "It... helps. Talking it out."

Cas's tongue is lead in his mouth.

Does he dare? In the privacy of his journal, the dark of his room, he's been able to start 'talking' about it. He's been able to admit to himself what it was, though nothing helps the shame, the _guilt_ -

The fear that even now creeps up his spine, chilling his skin. Until now, he's been able to deal with that night bit by bit, taking fractional pieces of it to try and digest because he still can't think about it as a whole except in the abstract.

Does he tell Sam? Should he hope that Sam will react as Dean had, that Sam will not blame him for it?

If Sam and Dean both believe he's not at fault, maybe Cas can believe it too. There had been catharsis in telling Dean, a weight lifted, but if Sam were to react badly-

"You don't have to," Sam says quickly, the silence apparently having drawn on too long. "But if you ever need to, I'm here."

Cas isn't aware of making a decision. He opens his mouth, looking down at his dirty clothes piled on the chair.

"I dreamed of the night I was raped."

There's silence, a terrible, ringing silence following the words. Cas feels suddenly off-balance, his stomach clenching.

The words reverberate in his head, echoing again and again and _again_  and Cas feels dizzy. Distantly, he's aware that his breathing has quickened, each one coming shallow and fast.

Strange. Such a small word, only four letters long. Four letters to sum up the entirety of the experience.

It seemed _wrong_  somehow, that such a word was so quick to say. Two syllables, four letters, one night seared into his memory, months of nightmares that had him reliving it over and over and _over_ -

He thinks he hears someone saying his name.

Four letters. So many heavy words were only four letters long, weren't they? Love. Hate. Need. _Stay_. For a moment, Cas viciously wished that they were all longer, all harder to say, because it seemed impossible that such tiny words held such meaning, such weight. Such _emotion_ , so much fear and pain and _guilt_  and-

"Cas?!"

He comes back to himself abruptly. He's sitting down now, he realizes dazedly, a mug of something warm and rich in his hands.

Coffee. Sam had been pouring him coffee.

He'd used Castiel's favorite mug, a garish orange thing Cas had found at a thrift store. The liquid inside is dark and smells strongly of the Columbian blend Sam prefers, steam still rising from it in gentle whorls. Cas breathes it in slowly, air hitching in his lungs.

The wooden chair he is sitting in has a smooth, high back and arm rests that are a little too low for perfect comfort, but the cushion is plush. The wood is cold against his back, even through the T-shirt, but slowly warming as he sits.

The floor is stone and cold under his feet. The tiles are smooth, worn from years of use.

It is early morning sometime, and he is in the bunker, with Sam Winchester, and he is safe.

"Cas?" Sam asks again, worriedly. Cas swallows thickly.

He'd known. He just hadn't verbalized it, had barely dared _think_  it, because then it would be real.

It had _always_  been real.

Cas takes a deep breath. Sam is watching him, compassion on his face. Cas looks away.

"You with me?" Sam asks softly, like Cas is a wounded animal he's afraid to spook. Cas nods.

"I-" He tries to explain. "I'd never said it. Before. I never said the word."

Sam seems to understand. He nods, opens his mouth, and shuts it again. Cas waits, tense.

Would Sam think he was weak, that he allowed such a thing to happen? Would he think Cas had desired _that_  and only regretted it the morning after, when he'd found out what wore her face?

Would Sam tell him it was a part of being human, of being a _man_ , and that he was just denying a part of himself?

"Do you want to talk about it?" Sam asks. There's nothing but compassion in his voice and Cas breathes out.

There's still a chance Sam would tell him he had no reason for nightmares, but... maybe he wouldn't. Cas swallows.

Before he speaks, he has to know.

"Was it..." he starts. His voice wobbles and he grits his teeth. He can't look at Sam. "Was it my fault?"

Ridiculous. He hadn't told Sam anything, Sam wouldn't know-

"No," Sam says, so fiercely Cas jerks his head up to look. Sam's eyes burn with conviction, pain creasing the corners. "Cas, it was _never_  your fault."

Sam doesn't know anything. Cas hasn't told him a thing and he knows Dean wouldn't break his confidence. Sam's answer should mean nothing. And yet, somehow hearing the words soothes his fears.

Cas looks away again. He fiddles with his mug, runs a thumb over the rim of the cup. He feels the heat suffuse his skin.

"I thought she was being kind," Cas admits quietly. He remembers that night, the offer of food. Of a safe, warm place to sleep. He'd seen no danger in accepting the offer, remembering a very different woman who had welcomed a naked amnesiac into her home and given him warm clothes, food, and a bed she had never asked to share.

Daphne had never touched him. She'd simply rolled with the story of their 'marriage' so nobody would ask awkward questions about the strange man living with her. Cas had thought April would be the same.

He hadn't known. There was so much he _hadn't known_  that night, as he'd naively followed her into her apartment, and then-

The story comes spilling out of him. The relief of being clean and warm. The gratitude for something other than garbage to eat. The security of a closed door.

Then the confusion. The fear.

The howl of the storm outside as he contemplated saying 'no', weighing his chances against his fallen siblings and the elements. The apartment becoming a cage and the sandwich turning to lead in his stomach as he realized he couldn't.

"I wanted to," Cas says, because that feels important, the fact that in his mind he'd been braver, stronger. In his mind he'd been screaming a denial so loudly he's surprised nobody else heard it. "I wanted to say 'no', I wanted-"

"I know, Cas, I know," Sam says, voice small, and Cas nods, not looking at him.

He recounts the betrayal of his body, how he cursed it for reacting even as he forced himself to move so it would be _over_. How he fell asleep sick with himself and woke to a nightmare.

Everything had felt so much more real the morning after. The harsh light of day had seemed to cement the events of the night before, making him realize that _yes_ , it had actually happened, and he hadn't been able to stop it. Hadn't even seen it coming.

And then she had killed him.

And then Dean had told him to leave.

Something wet hits the back of his hand. Cas blinks, realizes he's been staring at his now-cold coffee for some time now, and his face feels wet, his eyes raw.

He puts his untouched mug of coffee on the table, pretending his hands aren't shaking. Pretending _he_  isn't shaking, whether from relief or fear or exhaustion he can't tell.

He feels wrung out, like he could sleep for a week, but oddly... light.

He'd told someone. Finally, somebody else knew.

Cas looks up at Sam. He feels nervous again, scared that hearing the story laid out like that might change Sam's mind about blaming him.

Sam's eyes are red-rimmed too, cheeks damp even as he scrubs at them with one hand. Cas watches him, all his words temporarily lost after the outpouring. He waits, hoping for a sign.

"Cas," Sam says, voice thick. "I'm going to hug you now, if that's ok?"

A hug. That sounds... good. Dean had hugged him too, after, and it had been grounding and comforting and  _good_.

Cas nods slowly and Sam scoots his chair closer, his knees bumping Cas's as Sam pulls him in for the tightest hug their positions allow them. Cas's breath hiccups in his throat and he shivers, his arms coming up to clutch at Sam.

"Was it..." Cas asks, suddenly desperate for reassurance. "Was it my-"

"It wasn't your fault, Cas," Sam says, quiet but sure. Cas breathes in and shuts his eyes, shuddering as he replays the words in his mind.

'Not my fault, not my fault.'

Dean had said that too, that Cas was not to blame for what had happened. He wants to believe them both, desperately, but there's a part of him that won't. Not yet.

'If I had known, if I had left, if I had sought shelter earlier-'

Cas shivers again and feels Sam tighten his hold. It's a good hug, Cas decides. It feels different than when he's hugging Dean; Sam's hugs are family and comfort and safety. Dean's hugs are _home_  and _stay_  and _I need you_  and-

And things Cas doesn't want to think about. Things he thinks he wants - wanted? - that now on some level terrify him. Things he was only ever curious about with Dean.

Things he isn't sure he can handle anymore.

Sam draws back slowly, letting Cas decide if he's ready for the hug to be over. Cas lets him go, though he regrets the loss of warmth. Sam smiles at him, small and strained but encouraging, then drops his gaze.

"I know it's not exactly the same, but... I get it," Sam says. He breathes in. "When Gadreel tricked me - when he pretended he was Dean - I was ready to go with Death. But Gadreel, he - he told me what I wanted to hear. That Dean needed me. So I said 'yes'. And when I found it wasn't really Dean who said that, that I'd been tricked ... that he'd used my body to do - to do terrible things ... " Sam shakes his head. "I just... I understand. I know what it's like to have your body do things you would never do. I know what it's like to... to want to say 'no', but not be able to."

Cas stares at him in surprise. He hadn't though about it like that and it's... comforting, in a strange way. He's not alone.

"I'm sorry," he says. Sam's smile turns wry.

"Not your fault," he replies. "But if you ever want to talk... I'm not going to pretend our situations were exactly alike, but I get it. I'm here."

Cas takes a deep breath and lets it out.

"Thank you," he says. His throat feels thick. "For listening. And for understanding."

Sam's smile fades, replaced by a look of compassion.

"Any time," Sam says. He means it, Cas can tell, and he breathes easier.

Now Dean and Sam both know and neither of them want him to leave. Neither of them blame him for it.

Cas is almost dizzy with relief. He relaxes back into his chair, feeling like a puppet whose strings had suddenly been cut but surprisingly... ok. He might even go so far as to say 'happy'.

Maybe everything really _would_  be ok. One day.

Maybe that day wasn't unreachable after all.

He hears a shuffling of feet and he and Sam both turn to face the door as Dean stumbles in, wrapped in his robe and one hand rubbing at his eyes. Dean stops dead, blinking at Sam and Cas like he's just realized they were there.

Dean rubs at his eyes again and looks from one to the other. Cas meets his eyes for a moment, something in him warming when he recognizes concern in those eyes.

"We good?" Dean asks cautiously, voice rough with sleep. Cas looks at Sam, who is smiling hopefully back at him, eyes asking the same question.

Cas smiles.

"We're good," Cas says. He clears his throat. "We talked."

Dean's brow furrows. He looks at Sam, who smiles and lifts one shoulder.

"He'll be fine," Sam says carefully, as though quoting. "He's got us."

Dean's face clears, expression going through emotion too fast for Cas to parse. Dean settles on a smile that's bittersweet but proud. Cas finds himself relaxing fully, his own smile resting easier on his face at the sight.

"Good," Dean says. "Now, who wants breakfast? I'm thinking waffles..."


End file.
